


An Energy Greater Than Us Both

by 13thDoctor, JHarkness



Series: The Stars Had Aligned [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Meetings, Jedi Temple, M/M, Origins, Pre-Rogue One, Rogue One Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHarkness/pseuds/JHarkness
Summary: Five times Baze surprised Chirrut, and the one time Chirrut surprised Baze.





	1. We Are the Wild Youth

**Author's Note:**

> What. A. Movie. We feel that's all we need to say.  
> This is somewhat non-canon compliant. Since all but the last chapter takes place before the movie, it's hard to say, but: We've taken a few liberties in these characters' origins, since everything is not yet available from canon sources. We have done as much research as possible and seen the movie enough times that we are not concerned. We will know more when the book comes out (yay!) but this is all original thought for now.  
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Enjoy!

Chirrut Imwe was born into pity. He could see it in their faces despite the darkness, the beings that took in his sightless eyes and the way his mother gripped his hand as if he would fall away without her guidance. From a young age, Chirrut came to despise this pity. When his parents inevitably abandoned him, he refused charity and made a life for himself in the dusty street corners of Jedha.

What no one knew about the little blind boy who stalked the city alleyways was that he  _ could  _ see, in his own way. He could pick out the correct fruit to steal, something that would yield the most flavor and energy. He knew exactly when someone had abandoned a Caf on a bench and when it was clear to snatch it, and he could defend himself against the older kids who made it a sport to hurt and torment him. They never got what they wanted. After he sent them all scurrying home with broken noses, they stopped bothering him.

Ignorant of the ways of the Force, he had no words to describe his abilities; he simply thought his parents had made a mistake in sending him away. “Mā,” he would say at night to the sky, his face turned upwards and bathed in the moon’s celestial glow, because the night had been more of a guardian to him than his birth mother. Jedha was mercilessly cold at night, so most of its inhabitants stayed indoors. Chirrut, bundled in stolen furs--if he was not careful, he would be creating a career out of larceny--took the time to meditate, a skill his father had taught him many years ago. It was one of the only memories he retained of him, that and the few years of martial arts training he’d been fortunate enough to be given.

He was six and stealing was his way of life. His hair was long and unruly, his skin calloused and scarred. His eyes, people told him, were cold, bright blue. He was told he was lucky, but he thought there was more than luck involved, and his ears pricked with interest when talk of kyber crystals and the Jedi Temple came through the marketplace. Though that life seemed unreachable for him, the stars whispered to him that it was alright to dream.

He was seven when the Jedi took interest in him.

A woman wearing a long cloak passed him one afternoon and gently deposited a coin in his empty cup of stolen Caf. “May the Force be with you, child,” she said. There was something off about that smile, too much complacency, Chirrut realized, but she was gone in a puff of jade and snow before he could decipher it further.

Enraged by her pity offering and reckless enough to think he could take on a fully trained warrior, he took off after her. Vendors and civilians shouted as he sprinted into the streets, letting his instincts guide him to the mystery woman. He was small and fast enough to catch her in mere minutes; he caught the  _ swoosh  _ of her cloak as she slipped around a corner and past a door into a building. Chirrut entered it with fire in his veins.

Jasmine incense burned heavy in the air. Chirrut reached out with his other senses to locate her. Soft footsteps on a hard floor, soft whispers of, “Isn’t that the blind boy who lives in the marketplace?”. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and focused.

From the cacophony of the temple--families praying, offerings being made, elders drinking holy spirits--he pinpointed the distinct sound of a cloak floating through the air as the woman sat. He paced forward, listened again. Turned to the right. His head cocked to one side, he drowned out all other sounds to hear her rustling in place, seemingly restless. Her jade scent contrasted conspicuously to the jasmine laid out by the temple’s monks, and her husky voice as she thanked someone for a glass of water was unmistakable.

Chirrut ran to her and without a moment’s hesitation leapt up with his leg extended. She stood, not even jostling her glass, and blocked his kick lazily. Breathing hard, Chirrut faced her in a fighting stance; she crossed her arms and laughed. “I knew you would come for me,” she bragged. “We will have to make you less predictable, child.”

He delivered a swift uppercut that was easily swatted away, and then he was on his back and she was holding down his entire body with just one foot on his chest. Chirrut had never been bested before, and it was not a feeling he enjoyed. So he laid still and calm, feigning defeat as he waited for another chance.

“Alanora, by the way. My name is Alanora, and you are Chirrut Imwe.” He blinked. “Oh yes, child, I know you. The marketplace menace, the tangerette thief, the blind bandit. They have many names for you.”

“I do not answer to those,” he muttered.

“Then how would you like to answer to Guardian Imwe?” Alanora asked. She removed her foot and extended her hand, which he declined to take as he righted himself. She smirked; he could hear the way her lips quirked upward, like ice cracking apart. “You are strong with the Force, Chirrut. Not a Jedi, but someone like me.” Alanora snatched his wrist and pulled it toward her face even as Chirrut struggled. Stronger and tougher, she forced his palm open and laid it flat against where her ear should have been. Instead, a gaping hole and thin, crudely healed flesh took its place. He knew without touching her that the other ear was also gone.

“Both were blasted off by a stray shot in a street brawl,” she explained when she released him. “I was eleven, and already training to be a Guardian. I do not consider this a tragedy, Chirrut, nor a burden. That is how we are the same, me and you. I put that coin in your cup because I knew how angry it would make you.”

“You could have just asked,” he retorted, rubbing at the sore spot where her boot had planted itself. “I would have said yes.” He held his chin high.

Her laughter was rain on a foggy day. “That would not have been any fun, would it have? Now come with me, we’ll be shaving your head like mine, hmm, these long locks are simply intolerable...” She spoke as she moved, expecting him to follow. And he did.

Chirrut Imwe exceeded all expectations from the Jedi. Most thought him too irascible. Overtime, however, he channeled that anger into his fists. He was lethal in a fight, and unstoppable once Alanora took him to make his staff, which contained kyber crystal shards. He was a devout believer in the Force, praying and meditating when he was not sparring. He trained his body and mind and soul, understanding the harmony Jedi coveted between the three, and was well on his way to becoming the most capable Guardian the Jedha Temple had ever seen.

No one told him he would need a partner.

“They are only trials,” Alanora reminded him sternly. “And you have almost complete control over who is chosen. Feel it  _ here, _ ” she touched his chest, hand flat over his heart, “and let the Force guide you.”

Chirrut nodded. “They will disappoint me,” he told her. She laughed that same laugh from the day they met and smiled the same crooked smile.

He was ten, not even a Jedi, and he could beat most of the Padawans who came through the Temple. It was foolish of the Jedha masters to think sparring was the proper test. Yet he stood in the cold air, clothes clinging to his lean frame, as the candidates were seated about the area. It was a circular colosseum built within the rock walls, and he was at its center. Staff in hand, mouth shaping his daily prayer-- _ I am one with the force, and the force is with me-- _ he could feel the tension in the air, thick and tangible enough to be cut with a knife. He grinned, stepping into his fighting stance.

The first boy went easy on him because of his eyes. He pointed his staff at the boy’s bloody nose; “I leave you with this lesson: Never judge a man by his appearance. Next.” The second boy lasted two minutes before Chirrut broke his foot. Alanora snickered from behind her hand. Third, a girl--she managed to hit him once in the stomach, and then he upended her and left her eating snow.

“At least challenge me,” he asked the Jedi, arms spread wide.

His only warning was a hoarse grunt, and then he was smashed into the ground, a hefty body wrestling him down. The Force, it seemed, had willed a check on his ego, which he appreciated. The hands curled around his biceps, he did not. His staff had fallen away, so he relied on his legs, wrapping them around his challenger’s waist and flipping them. He straddled him, noting his size; irregularly large for someone Alanora had insisted was only eleven. Also far too large was the fist that smashed into his temple, sending him toppling over.

The effect was immediate and terrifying. Blood rushed through his head and his ears buzzed. He was dizzy, stumbling about with a momentary lapse in every sense. The Force was the only thing that kept him standing. The large boy was the only thing that knocked him over and kept him that way. When the ringing ceased, he gasped like a drowning man brought back to life. Alanora was close by, holding his head in her lap. His tongue held salt and copper, having licked his lips and tasted the blood dripping from the wound in his scalp.

“Is he okay?” a gruff, unfamiliar voice asked.

“Baze Malbus… What a hit,” Alanora said on a breath. Chirrut had to agree.

“Him,” he murmured to Alanora. She tapped him twice on the wrist, their signal of “yes” when she didn’t want to speak it aloud.

Chirrut felt Baze sit beside him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized genuinely. “I have always used that move. I forgot… I forgot that your sight was already… It’s meant to incapacitate you, cut off all your senses.”

Chirrut’s face burned. He stood abruptly, forcing his audience to scramble up with him. “You ruined it,” he fumed through gritted teeth. He offered no explanation for his behavior, instead plucking his staff from the ground and returning to his room in haste. He cleaned and dressed his wound himself. Every pinch of pain reminded him of the pity soaking Baze’s words. He’d been so promising, but Chirrut could not abide by a partner who spent his time pitying him.

There was a gentle knock on his door; he did not recognize the pattern or strength, so it was a new caller. He swung the door open forcefully.

“No,” he said, irritated. “You are not welcome.”

Baze grunted and stuck his wide shoulders in the door to keep it from closing. Chirrut frowned at him, surprised.

“You are right to be angry with me,” Baze admitted. “I should not have pitied you, I know. I was worried. I cannot be your partner without worrying, but if you will have me, I promise to never again pity you.”

He extended his hand. Chirrut, smiling, grasped it.


	2. Cosmic Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback so far!

Chirrut was sixteen when he realized he was in love. It was during his nighttime meditation, when his head was meant to be clear and his breathing slow, steady. Instead of focusing on his breathing, though, he was preoccupied with the sound of Baze’s heart. The boy sat opposite to him, also meditating. They were required to meditate together, even if they were angry with one another, because it strengthened their bond.

Chirrut realized he was in love not in a long, ponderous reflection, but in a single jarring moment that hit his body like a freefall. His blood turned to ice, then to fire, and he blushed as if Baze could read his thoughts. He breathed deeper and searched for the comforting darkness once more. It came in seconds--his spirituality was highly attuned--but was lost just as fast.

_Baze’s hand patting his shoulder. Their thighs brushing when they sit on the Temple walls. Baze’s warm, permanent presence by his side, and the way he allows Chirrut to feel his face to memorize it. The solidness of his body when he pulled Chirut onto his back and carried him around all day as a self-made training regimen, and the way they had collapsed when Chirrut tried to carry Baze. Their tangle of limbs and their lack of personal space and the sound of Baze’s breath right here and now._

A fire kindled in the pit of his stomach and he resisted the urge to shift. There was no use in interrupting his partner when he was the only one struggling. If he could not find peace, he could at least allow Baze to. So he allowed himself to sink into his fantasies, content in leaving his friend to quiet meditation while he did so.

_They sleep in the same room. Their beds have been pushed together for warmth and for bonding, vital parts of living in the Jedha Temple. Chirrut does not sleep until Baze does; the sound of his breath is a lullaby and Chirrut is the unsettled one. Alanora’s death at the hands of a kyber smuggler brought him to a rage that could not be subdued except by Baze’s gentle restraining arms. He holds Chirrut on the worst nights, and they disentangle in the yellow sunlight. Chirrut does not tell him how much he wants him to stay._

Accustomed to being lost in his reflections, Chirrut was startled by the sounds of the Temple at night. He became acutely aware of the Jedi sparring in the yard; their shouts and the clash of lightsabers thudded into his ears as if he was sitting between them. The wind carried to him the scent of supper’s leftovers, which would be packaged and distributed to Jedha City’s poor. Something simmered in the Force, whispering of dark times passed and even darker times to come. He frowned.

The wind picked up and blew through them. Baze’s unruly hair--he refused to cut it out of an admirable stubbornness--hit him in the face and he made an irritated sound to cover up how content he was to inhale the scent of gunmetal and jasmine tea.

_Baze drank copious amounts of tea. Jasmine was his favorite, but he would try anything once. He always made a cup for Chirrut, and Chirrut lived for those moments when their fingers brushed as Baze passed him a steaming mug._

“Are you meditating?” Baze asked incredulously. Chirrut had once thought it was impossible, but Baze’s voice was deeper than when they had first met.

“Not really,” Chirrut admitted. “But all is as the Force wills it, and tonight it wills me to feel my surroundings.”

Baze grumbled something unintelligible and then, clearer, observed, “You’re distracted.”

“I am,” he said on a laugh.

“By what?” And suddenly, he was so incredibly close. Chirrut’s heart beat loud enough that he was sure Baze could also hear it.

“The Force tremors. It is afraid,” he answered, but he meant _You._

“You are a good liar, Chirrut, but I know you too well.”

 _That is what scares me._ “Stop arguing with me.”

“I will never stop arguing with you, Chirrut. You are too frustrating.”

They chuckled together, but Chirrut was able to pick up the nervousness in Baze’s laughter. He cocked his head to the side to make sure he had heard it correctly and Baze, recognizing the action, caught the side of his face in his hand and straightened it.

“That will not tell you why I am nervous,” Baze murmured.

Chirrut scoffed. “I am no mind reader, fool, I am only--”

“I will show you,” Baze interrupted him. He pressed their foreheads together, still holding Chirrut’s face, and then gently slid their lips together. Chirrut, ever reckless, kissed him back feverishly, nearly toppling them over in his haste.

“That,” Chirrut said between kisses, “is why I was distracted.”

“I know.”


	3. In Your Warmth I Forget How Cold it Can Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT MY BBY CHIRRUT GROWIN' UP AH  
> (enjoy the update!)

It was always cold on Jedha. Those who called it home had acclimated to the permanent winter, visible puffs of breath and frost on their hands simply a daily reminder that they were alive. Baze would always grumble when Chirrut left their home without a coat. “Stay warm,” he would call, to which Chirrut never failed to reply:

“That’s why I have you.”

It was, however, a day Chirrut regretted not wearing something more suitable. His robes were warm, but built for skirmishes and mediation, not walking through the beginnings of a freezing storm. Wind biting at his face, Chirrut took deep, even breaths and focused on the sound of the rain crashing into windows and walls. He mumbled a quick prayer and pressed on.

Mud and slush began to soak through his shoes. Chirrut pulled the sack he carried closer; it held various medicines and a knitted blanket that other guardians had given him in exchange for the herbs and spices he provided from his garden. The day had been clear when he began his journey, sun spilling on his face and caressing his fingertips. Yet the weather had worsened rapidly, something he and the Jedi saw only as an omen for darkness to come. What darkness they did not yet know, but Chirrut chose--selfishly, he considered, but there were things worth being selfish for--to focus on the light ahead of him.

As he neared his home, he could feel Baze’s steady presence. He didn’t need to knock; the door was unlocked before he reached it. It slid open with a soft  _ whoosh _ , and Chirrut was met with the bold smell of ground chili pepper. Other ingredients reached him gradually: more vegetables from their garden, seasoned roba meat, butter.

“Chili dumplings?” Chirrut asked, setting down his staff and bow. Baze grunted in reply. His focus was on the dough in front of him, molding even the scraps into small dumplings for stew.

Chirrut approached Baze slowly, careful not to disrupt his cooking. He wrapped his arms around Baze’s chest and kissed his cheek, inhaling deeply. He smelled like earth and rain, but something metallic lingered, the smell of weapons fastidiously cleaned. At twenty-six Baze had more blood on his hands than most, but the credits he earned kept their house warm.

“You’re shivering,” Baze remarked, voice high with concern. He added, “But you are used to the weather on Jedha,” his tone somewhere between sarcastic and affectionate. Chirrut laughed and turned to kiss his lover’s cheek again, and instead found his mouth against Baze’s, the scratch of his beard a familiar sting. Smiling into the kiss, Chirrut balanced on his toes to better reach him. They kissed slowly, and the chili spice burned Chirrut’s tongue pleasantly. It tasted like home.

Baze was the first to pull away, and Chirrut could feel the tension in his muscles when he did. His heart beat faster; Chirrut had regarded it as a natural reaction to his presence, but it was something else. He placed his hand over Baze’s heart.

“What troubles you?”

But Baze only shook his head, and, laughing, batted Chirrut’s hand away. “You are making me cold.” The humor of his words was lost to a slight tremor in his voice. “Go put on something warm. And dry!” His hands resumed their work with the dumplings. Stuff, roll, bread, fry. He rolled back into the rhythm as if there was no interruption, and Chirrut loved him for it. But he did not like the tense line of Baze’s shoulders, or the stillness of his face as Chirrut trailed his thumb down his cheek.

He pondered this, eyebrows drawn together in worry, as he made his way to their bedroom. Chirrut had long since memorized their homestead, and had no need for his staff. His hands lingered over Baze’s clothes, not soft or comfortable, but practical. Chirrut’s garments were smooth, made of lightweight, durable materials. Changing into a simple black robe, Chirrut hung his dripping robes to dry and returned to the kitchen.

Baze was setting plates on the table when Chirrut came back. He cocked his head slightly when he felt the flicker of scented candles. They were jasmine scented. “My favorite,” he stated, holding his hands out to the flame. Baze nodded, moving around the table until he was standing in front of Chirrut. His heart rate increased rapidly when he was close to Chirrut again; Chirrut could hear the quick flutters, could sense the Force pulsing uneasily around him. He assumed his face was flushed, and the suspicion was concerned when he reached for Baze, hands framing his face.

“Baze.”

Baze exhaled quietly, bringing his hands up to cover Chirrut’s. He bent forward until his forehead touched Chirrut’s, and then kissed him chastely. Chirrut smoothed the worry lines on his face, the concern gnawing at his stomach competing with the jolts of electricity he felt each time Baze let him map his face. It was then he sensed something unexpected; Kyber crystal, tucked away somewhere in Baze’s pockets.

“I do not believe guardians of the temple are meant to remove crystals from it.” A wry smile spread over his face. As if he could not help it, Baze smiled, too, thinking of when he had first kissed Chirrut in the Jedha temple. As if Chirrut really were a mind reader, he started, “Do you remember our--”

“First kiss?” Baze finished, smoothing his hands over the silky material of Chirrut’s night robe. “Of course.” He took a step back, skin burning. Chirrut frowned and reached for him, a question forming on his lips, and Baze shook his head to silence him.

“We have known one another for what I consider our entire lives, because I don’t think I lived much before you. I want to know you for the rest of mine. I do not want to live a day without you, or not having you as mine.” Baze took a deep, halting breath, and withdrew the Kyber crystal from his pocket. It had been cut in the form of a ring, and was carved around the outside and within. The carving was Galactic Basic Aurebesh, reading  _ I am one with you _ and  _ You are with me  _ respectively. Holding it out, Baze let Chirrut trace the carving, grinning as he realized he had finally struck his lover speechless.

“You are a fool, Chirrut Imwe, but for all your foolishness, I still love you. Will you be my husband?”

Chirrut reached for Baze again, and this time, he drew him in and held him so tightly he forgot the storm outside. It was easy to forget how cold it could be in that warmth. Chirrut felt closer to the Force than he ever had, waiting and breathing and  _ feeling _ . He lost track of how many times he murmured  _ yes  _ into Baze’s chest, neck, mouth. The storm raged and they laughed, together.

Entire galaxies, and they were together.


	4. I'm Sick to Death of Bleeding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some major angst from here on out. We apologize in advance!

Jedha was peaceful when the Clone Wars began.

Chirrut stood on a vibrant field and felt the Force pulsing, the heartbeat of all things. He was 33, but he felt younger. Something lifted his heart and carried his voice across several yards, calling for his husband.

Chirrut smiled. Children were chasing Baze through the field--Chirrut could hear their clear, bright laughter easily. Baze put up a stoic front, but he let them pull his hair and wrap their small arms around his legs; he dragged them around in the dirt, feigning weariness and grunting before falling, arms outstretched. They climbed atop him, victorious. Only the farmer’s children seemed wary, concerned about the crops being crushed beneath his broad shoulders. But Chirrut felt breathless.

Then he felt cold.

Chest tight, Chirrut felt his hands on the ground before he realized his knees had given way. He vaguely registered Baze shouting for him. Loudly, deafeningly, he heard explosions and blaster fire and screams. Cries for mercy. The pleads of children, like the ones surrounding him now.

A Togruta youngling reached Chirrut seconds before Baze did. She was strong with the Force, and no doubt felt the suffering he did. Her tear-stained face pressed against his while her hands fisted in his robes. Baze dropped to his knees and pulled them both to his chest.

“What is happening?” Baze hissed. His hands were cold, so cold.

“We must go to the Temple--we must--” Chirrut hauled himself to his feet, swinging the girl so that she could grip his neck as he held her. He took long, sure strides, confident if he could get there, if he could just--

“Chirrut.” Baze’s voice was soft. Grief-stricken. A steady contrast to Chirrut’s panic that made him pause, heart hammering. “They are gone.”

Chirrut began to shake his head, protests lodged in his throat. The first Jedi temple was his beginning, the Temple of the Whills his home. The Jedi were his family.

“No,” he gritted through his teeth. He had trained the anger of his younger years away, preferring peace and laughter. The people of Jedha came to him for spiritual advice, future-telling, and healing. He was a guardian.

But he was also a lethal warrior.

Baze moved in front of Chirrut, blocking his path. He drew his husband and the young girl into a tight embrace, the slight tremor of his shoulders the only indication of suffering.

“I must take a stand,” Chirrut whispered, voice strong.

“Then I will stand with you.”

…

 

When Baze held the youngling in his arms, her blood covering his hands and running to the temple floor, he denounced the Force for the lie it was.

Chirrut remained true. “I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” he prayed every morning. Every night. He guarded the temple and fed the poor and returned home to Baze, trying to show in his love the truth of the Force.

“The Force is not love, Chirrut,” Baze told him, tracing paths into his skin. “This is love,” and he kissed him like they would die tomorrow.

Chirrut stood in a barren field on Jedha and felt the force heave shuddering, heavy breaths, like the collective cries of millions across the galaxy. He was 33, but felt older. Something compressed his lungs and carried his breath across the distance, calling for the Jedi he knew were no more.

Jedha was peaceful when the Clone Wars began.


	5. I Find War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are terribly sorry it took so long to update. The plan was to only take a break on Christmas and the day after for holiday travels, but then Carrie... It didn't feel right. May the Force be with her always.

Baze Malbus, once the most devout of all the guardians, laughed at Chirrut when he prayed. Chirrut had moved past the shock long ago; it had been over 10 years since the mass slaughter of the Jedi and the rise of the Empire, and little time could be spared for heartbreak and confusion. They had been forced to move to the Temple of the Whills to guard the crystals. Many were killed, and many of those who were not abandoned their faith as Baze did. But Baze would not abandon Chirrut.

Chirrut drew a cord from beneath his robes. His ring hung from it, and he traced the carving around it. He and Baze had taken to wearing their rings as necklaces, never doubting that the Empire would steal the Kyber crystals right from their hands. They had already destroyed Baze and Chirrut’s homestead; Chirrut doubted the Empire would mind taking more from them.

“At least we have the Temple,” he spoke aloud, voice loud enough to carry to where he knew Baze was standing. He huffed, unconvinced but unwilling to take Chirrut’s hope, and remained where he was. Chirrut smiled, feeling Baze’s eyes on his back. Sitting on the temple ledge, his legs crossed still from earlier meditation, Chirrut tilted his face toward the sky. He could hear the insects chirping and the wind blowing slowly across the ruins below. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so, and Chirrut wished Baze would pray with him. Chirrut spread his fingers on the ground beside him, breathing quietly. It was the place where Baze would meditate with him when they were young.

Chirrut heard Baze’s robes rustling as he moved. His footsteps were light; Baze’s bare feet found his familiar path and brought him next to Chirrut. He sat, and then curled onto his side, settling his head in Chirrut’s lap.

Stroking his hair, Chirrut closed his eyes in relief--he was not certain why he felt relieved, rather than at peace or happy, but the pressure in his chest lessened as he ran his fingers through his husband’s hair. It felt so familiar, so right, that Chirrut could nearly forget the Imperial forces hovering above Jedha.

They were waiting for the temperature to rise so that they could commence their attack. That, too, was now familiar. The guardians fought the stormtroopers that were sent down each day with a growing sense of futility. As their numbers grew, the guardians’ dwindled, leaving few but Baze and Chirrut to guard the temple. And they were tired.

“Come to bed, Chirrut,” Baze asked, his voice low and tender. He touched Chirrut’s face with intimate softness. “It is dark and I want you to myself.”

Chirrut grinned. “It is always dark.”

Baze scoffed and shook his head, digging his forehead into Chirrut’s stomach until Chirrut fell back, laughing. Climbing over him, Baze kissed whatever skin he could reach. He was breathless and freezing and red-faced and _alive_.

“Come to bed,” he repeated, and Chirrut followed him this time.

 

...

 

They woke simultaneously, violently, and suddenly. Chirrut pulled Baze to him and covered his body before he even knew what was happening, his other hand reaching for his staff. When he felt small stones and dirt on his back, he knew the temple was under attack.

“Is it collapsing?” Chirrut asked. His fingers finally closed around his staff and he pressed his cheek to Baze’s, whose hands were curled around his waist, holding him tightly.

“No, but I think they are shooting it,” Baze answered, voice deceptively level. Chirrut could feel the anger and disgust coursing through Baze and closed his eyes, reaching for the calming anchor of the Force. But if offered little comfort as the temple took another hit, and as Chirrut began to feel the other guardians’ cries of help.

Baze handed him his clothing before he could ask for them. They dressed hurriedly and collected their weapons; Chirrut had finally perfected his spirit bow and was more than willing to test it on Imperial stormtroopers.

They were not so willing to be its test subjects.

The fight was absolute chaos, not the grace and civility of Jedi battles. The guardians were merciless and had a significant advantage; they had very little left to lose. It did not aid them when reinforcements arrived, or when cargo ships began to descend while they attempted to fend off the Empire’s soldiers.

Chirrut was glad when the fighting moved outside the temple--he did not want to be a part of the destruction his other, his only, home.

“We cannot hold them!” someone screamed, and then Chirrut felt their light leave the Force. There was little light present anymore: the Force moved darkly around beings about to kill, and death was the Empire’s objective. It was sickening, but Chirrut felt no remorse when a stormtrooper died by his hand. A trained guardian of the temple, he felt almost nothing, a calm settling in him as he chanted his prayer tacitly.

 _I am one with the force and the force is with me, I am one with the force and_ \--

“Chirrut!”

Baze’s call was followed by a cry of pain. Chirrut’s skin turned to ice, colder than Jedha’s winter, and he ran to his husband, heedless of the violence around him. Baze was doubled over, clutching his side. Chirrut could smell the fresh blood. It was not a fatal wound, but it was enough, and Chirrut felt suddenly like the boy he was before he had Baze, angry and afraid.

He stood with an arm around Baze’s waist and began pulling them away from the fight. “I go where you go,” Baze said as he shot another stormtrooper. Chirrut took three more down easily and made his way toward the temple’s entrance. Before he reached it, Baze’s hand closed around his wrist like a vise. “But we cannot go back there.”

“You’re surrendering?” Chirrut asked, incredulous.

“I am finally recognizing something I should have a long time ago, Chirrut.” His voice was a breath. “We have lost here.”

It felt like a blaster shot to his stomach, the admission. His faith gone, Baze had his spirit and his stubbornness to keep him. Chirrut swallowed down the shock because he knew it was true. He knew it as he listened to the blaster fire and battle cries and dying breaths. He knew it as generals shouted orders to cargo pilots and tank drivers.

And he knew it as he swung Baze onto his back and carried him into the city.


	6. It Wasn't Very Long for Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story. I thoroughly enjoyed taking Chirrut on his mental and physical journey, and I feel even more attached to him now. Thank you all for your kind words; without you, this story would not be possible. Finally, if anyone is interested, I listened to "The Avatar's Love" by The Track Team many times while writing this ending (I actually listened to the whole soundtrack), and it could be useful if you value a good cry. Thank you again, and may the force be with you.

The air tasted of smoke and sand. Chirrut was engulfed in the sounds of misery, of blasters and war and the last breaths of fearless warriors. Chirrut felt their lives extinguish and gripped his staff with white knuckles. The Force guided his journey across the beach; its presence as well as Baze’s settled him in all the chaos. When the ground became uneven, the surfaces he had just walked crumbling away into ruins, Baze held out his hand and they traveled together. Chirrut inhaled control and exhaled fear.

Their group escaped the Scarif troopers behind a layered set of metal doors on the base. There was no way in, but they were covered enough that they could wait out the troopers and shoot from a distance. Chirrut and Baze were separated, but Chirrut could feel him across the divide. His heartbeat was always steady as he killed, his pulse beating in time with each shot.

“Are you alright?” Baze shouted. Chirrut could hear every word despite the deafening roar of X-Wings flying above.

“I am fine,” Chirrut called back. “The Force protected me.”

“ _I_ protected you,” Baze grumbled as he reloaded his weapon, echoing countless conversations after battles. They were words that were whispered with a tenderness usually mistaken as annoyance. Chirrut always heard his heart, though, and the truth in its steady rhythm.

Chirrut opened his mouth to continue their banter but was interrupted by an explosion nearby. The structure shifted dangerously and they all pressed close as troopers took the opportunity to strengthen their assault. Baze cursed, Chirrut prayed. The rebels around them whimpered or yelled, cowered or instigated. Chirrut was reminded of their youth. He frowned as he recalled his and Baze’s own introduction to the rebellion, how Baze despised the blood on his hands but loathed the Empire enough to kill again. How despite it all, Chirrut knew they would always be together, and the threat of Baze being taken from him became the absolute enemy.

“The master switch,” their team leader panted. Chirrut blinked away his memories and turned his head to the sound of the man’s voice. “It’s on the console out there.” Chirrut felt the shift in the air as he pointed. “We need to turn it on… establish a connection so they can send the plans through…” His voice trailed off and Chirrut realized he was wounded; his lungs labored to produce breath, his jaw was taut and words halting.

The task weighed heavy on them. Silence followed as each man considered the task; it was a necessary but fatal choice. But these were children of war, men of the rebellion, people of hope. “I’m going for it!” a resolute voice sounded, and was just as soon silenced as he stepped one foot out. Chirrut flinched while the Force cried out, reaching to the fallen hero. The rest of the team followed, but to no avail. Each made it further than the last, his footprints in the sand a fleeting reminder of his bravery, but none could reach. Chirrut felt the air shift when each man accepted his death; it was chilling and comforting alike.

There was no thought to it when it came, simply a grimace to brace himself. Chirrut took a step forward, his prayer rising on his lips, and let the Force rush into him. He felt the turn of Baze’s head. The protest, the heart breaking. “Chirrut, no!” he shouted even as the Guardian stepped onto the beach. He turned his face to the sun, feeling its warmth for the last time and relishing each ray.

“Chirrut! Come back!” His heartbeat was no longer steady. His voice broke, and so did his heart.

Chanting faster, Chirrut forced his body across the path the Force had made for him. Every muscle shook; his tongue felt loose and his body already felt cold. “I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,” he prayed over and over again until the words were the only sound in his head besides Baze’s sorrowful screams

He collapsed against the console with a sigh of relief and felt for the switch with trembling hands. Then he turned, knowing his purpose had been realized, wondering if the Force would lead him back to his lover so he could say farewell. A nearby explosion engulfed the console in flames and propelled his body high in the air. He landed with the light already fading, a small smile on his face. His last thought was of Baze Malbus.

…

“No!” Baze screamed, a sound that could split the earth. He had watched Chirrut succeed with breathless adoration, and now he watched him land, broken and bloody, with breathless anguish. “No!” he repeated, as if it mattered, as if the Force had ever listened to what he said, and barreled out into the open with no regard to the troopers awaiting him. He ran while his eyes burned and his heart stuttered, wishing to stand still.

Baze collapsed over Chirrut, losing his balance on the uneven ground. He scrambled around him and pulled his head to his lap, feeling for a pulse. “Don’t go,” he demanded shakily. “Don’t go,” he whispered on a breath.

Chirrut reached up to touch his husband’s face but had little energy left. Baze, biting back any more words, took his hand and held them together, giving what comfort he could. He did not think it was enough, but he had never planned this, never expected Chirrut to die before him.

“Look to the Force and you will always find me,” Chirrut murmured. His sightless blue eyes lost all brightness as he took his final breaths; Baze, desperate, clung to Chirrut and repeated those words he knew by heart to ease his lover’s pain.

“The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force,” he recited. “The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force.” The smile Chirrut gave him alone was enough to restore his faith; the mantra was his bargain to the Force, his plea.

Baze stood. He fired shot after shot, calm as troopers fell to his blaster. He barely felt the burn when they shot him; he grunted and pressed on with purpose, still chanting. When he finally fell to the ground, he watched the C-25 fragmentation grenade roll out of a death trooper’s hand with only acceptance and hope. He looked back at the mangled body of his best friend, his lover, his husband, his savior. Flames soared into the sky and around him, but could not feel them. He had died when Chirrut Imwe left this earth.

…

_The world was of infinite colors and yet of none. It stretched larger than any planet he had ever walked and yet felt smaller than their house on Jedha. It was rain and snow and sunshine and fire. It was everything, and it was nothing. Baze was lost in it, and he cried out one name alone._

_“All is as the Force wills it,” Chirrut Imwe said, appearing from nowhere and everywhere. Baze took his hand and held him tight, shocked to feel an almost corporal body._

_Chirrut laughed. “I knew you believed!”_

_“I believed in you,” Baze replied, and kissed him for every star in the sky._

**Author's Note:**

> If you are interested in reading more Star Wars 5+1 fics, we have a Stormpilot one called "It Felt Like Burning" that is in this series.


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